Finding "Home"

I think most people have heard the quote, "Home is where the heart is." Since it's craft fair season, I've been seeing it a lot on homemade items for sale - dish towels, wooden plaques, wall hangings, etc. The emphasis is clearly on home as a place, and it makes me wonder if "home," for most people, is a place. For me, "home" is sometimes a place, but sometimes it isn't. Sometimes, home for me is a person - or a feeling.

This week, October 20th to 26th, makes me dwell on the concept of home. If my Nana was still alive, she would have turned ninety-five this week, and this week also marks the nineteenth anniversary of her death. Nineteen years. How have nineteen years passed since she died? It seems absurd. She still has such an active presence in my life, yet she's been gone nineteen years already. Where did the time go?

My Nana died when I was five years old. She was a huge part of my upbringing from the time I was born; I saw her almost every day, I was constantly sleeping over her house, and in many ways, she felt more like my third parent than my grandmother. All my early memories are of her; I have almost none of my parents. My parents and I lived with her for the first two years of my life, and then while my parents were at work or needed some time for themselves as a couple, she was the one who watched me. When I was an infant, she was one of people who got up at night when I cried. From the day my mother brought me home from the hospital until she went to the hospital days before she died, she soothed me. She fed me, she changed my diapers, she bathed me, and she tucked me in at night. She held me, she played with me, and she helped me learn to walk and talk. She took me everywhere - to the park, to the docks, to my friend's house... had she ever learned to drive, she probably would have taken me to school. She loved me to pieces, as I loved her.

When she died, the one thing I never did was blame her. I felt absolutely shattered, but I knew that if she had the choice, she wouldn't have left me then. I learned, at a very early age, that even when people want to be there for you and say they'll never leave, sometimes they don't have a choice. It doesn't mean they love you any less. It doesn't mean they've abandoned you. And the one thing I've constantly thought since then is that even though in a way she left, she's never really ever left me at all.

My home was her. My home was a person, the person who made me feel safe and protected and loved. It wasn't a building, it was her. When she died, I craved a place to feel close to her. My parents and I used to drive past her house every holiday on the way to or from my aunts' house. It was almost like visiting her grave, since she had chosen to be cremated and have her ashes scattered. For the longest time, I thought it was the place that felt like home, but it isn't so much as the place itself as it is the feelings it allows me to bring forth. It's painful to think about loss, and being in that place helps me get home; home to her and those feelings of being safe and protected and loved.

Over the years, my home has expanded - it's been places, mostly, and sometimes feelings. The feeling of freedom that college provided me with and my dorm room were my home for a few years. My father's house has been my home, on and off - or rather, my bedroom has been, maybe even just my bed, at times. My Nana, to this day, is still a part of my home. When people say you can't go home again, I think they're wrong - sometimes you can. Some homes will always be there for you to go back to.

It took my boyfriend saying that his home wasn't a place, it was a person, for me to finally understand why I didn't feel like my house was my home. It took him telling me that I was his home for me to realize that he has become a huge part of mine. When I was around my Nana, she made me feel like I could do anything; I didn't have to fear the world. I knew she'd be right there to help me back up if I fell, and she'd never love me less for trying. He makes me feel, in many respects, the same way. Around him, I can do things I never believed I would be able to, because I finally have the ability to let myself. He's reminded me that I have a home, that I don't need a place. And all I have to do is look into my heart, because the people and feelings that are my home can always be found there. I can be home anywhere, as long as I remember my heart.

What is "home" for you?